


Stepping Stones

by Castalle



Category: Tron (1982)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-09
Updated: 2013-01-09
Packaged: 2017-11-24 06:38:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 8,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/631529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castalle/pseuds/Castalle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every villain starts somewhere</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The first time Sark is introduced to the MCP, it is fairly early in his existence. He is dressed like any other program, blue lines of circuitry and paths following over his body. He is wearing the same helmet, the same clothes, the only defining feature, like most programs, is his face. 

“I am command program Sark.” he says, “My User created me to carry out and manage the directives given by –“

“Do not speak of your User.” The MCP commands. Although his face is older than the other programs, Sark is still young in form and knowledge. He goes silent, a flicker of fear running through his circuits as the MCP makes his demands, “I am your master, command program Sark. You will not recognize the Users around other programs. Acknowledge.”

Sark gives a nod, he isn’t going to argue with the MCP itself. But he is curious as to why this directive is given – the Users made them, why not speak of them freely? 

He hesitates, then finally speaks, eyes rising and quickly lowering back down once they meet the red gaze of the MCP.

“What is your command, Master Control?”

“Enter the games.” The crimson obelisk states, “Show no mercy to your opponents. After every victory, claim you fight for the MCP.”

Sark hesitates, taken aback. He has never been in the games before - he hasn’t even touched his own disk yet and given it a throw. 

“What’s the matter, Sark?” the MCP asks.

Sark swallows, nervous, “I am not..familiar with the games, Master Control – I have not had training or been in one before. And to show no mercy, Master Control, the games were created by the Users for their enjoyment, not for the elimination of pr-"

Sark suddenly doubles over, the blue circuitry in his suit turning red and beginning to fragment as his power cycles are slowed down. He can feel his body float, like an invisible hand is holding him above the ground. The MCP holds him there for a moment, allowing the pain to become paramount within his body before letting him drop, his suit returning to its normal blue hue.

“Do not make me repeat myself, Sark. You will do as I command, or you’ll find yourself in a remote control. End of line.”

Sark blinks, getting up and looking at the MCP, which stares back at him. He inclines his head, and turns, returning to the transport that had brought him there.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if the paragraphs seem out of whack, something isn't working with the formatting and it won't cooperate with me.

Sark nervously tapped his foot up and down as he sat in the holding chamber for the games. Other programs walked about, casually conversing with each other, showing off their ‘killer’ moves with extravagant swings and sometimes a spin. 

The games were a place of enjoyment and leisure – for the flashier programs to strut and show their processing power. Sark had no interest in them, although the rush from simple nervousness was something new, not enjoyable, but new.

A program tapped on the wall of the holding chamber. “You’re up.” He said, “Prepare for transport.”

Sark stood, crossing his arms uncomfortably as he prepared himself. Layers of light washed over him and he felt like his innards were somewhere else from his frame before being reconnected. He blinked, disoriented for a moment and wobbling on his feet. He heard a chorus of chuckles above him, and his gaze turned upwards. A few programs sat above the square pit that made up the disc arena, their legs hanging over the edge as they chattered and watched.

Four black squares were set down like points on a compass in the disc arena, and one was in the very center. Sark was in that center square, and his eyes darted about nervously for his opponent. On the square to his left, a few yards away, a program transported in. He was just as tall, shoulders broader and body thicker all around. 

He didn’t even wait for the starting bell – with a quick reach back and a throw, the program’s dimly glowing disc was flying at Sark. He stumbled and ducked, the disc flying overhead and swinging around to return to its owner’s hands. The programs observing went silent, watching with dopey smiles of amusement. Sark reached back, his arm bending awkwardly as he tried to pry his disk off. He fumbled with his hand for a moment, stumbling back as he finally stretched enough to grab it. He tossed it, and it glided lazily in the air before sliding on the ground and simply laying there.

The observing programs guffawed, and Sark looked at his disk, confused. His opponent went in to a spin, and Sark watched, eyes narrowing. The disc seemed to flash as energy was charged in to it, and it catapulted towards him. He dove down, dodging again and scrambling across the floor for his own disc, snatching it. Energy transfer - that was it!

He sent a burst of power in to his disc, throwing it awkwardly upwards from his place on the ground, rolling over, the snapping sound of his opponent’s disc hitting the floor close to his ears radiating in his head. He heard a thump and dared look up, only to raise his hand quickly to catch his own disc which was dutifully returning to his hand. Catching it, he stood, venting heavily as his eyes widened. 

His awkward floor-throw had sent his disc straight up and smacked in to his opponent’s face. The program was now on the ground, holding his nose. The other programs laughed, the severity of the situation lost to everyone but Sark.

The MCP had ordered no mercy – if a fraction of his energy being put in to the disk had caused the program minor damage, then more could possibly end up with a derezzing.

He walked over, trying his best to hide his fear as he approached. His opponent was waving his hand carelessly at him, still holding his nose.

“You win, you win.” He said, voice sounding nasally as a result of his injury.

Sark hesitated, then raised his disk, energy pulsing in to it. It became brighter and brighter until it was fully enveloped in blue light. The program removed his hand from his nose, backing up a bit, his nose cracked slightly to the side, frame having shifted under skin.

“Hey-“ he protested, “You win! Game’s over, alright?”

Sark pulled back his arm and with eyes shut he brought his disc down. His opponent didn’t have time to shout as the disc struck him in his core, body glowing and derezzing with a crackle of electricity.

The programs observing gasped, looking at each other in confusion, whispering to each other. Their eyes fell upon Sark, who caught his disk clumsily before clearing his throat and turning up to the observers. They stood, shuffling back a bit, eyeing him nervously like scared animals.

“I-“ he stopped, raising his voice so he they could hear him. The realization struck him then that he had won, he had derezzed another program. And there would be no repercussions, no action against him from a higher authority because the MCP was the highest authority! 

His voice was louder, threatening – or trying to be, “I fight…for the MCP.” 

The programs looked at each other, confused, but then turned back to him, expecting more.

Sark stuttered, what more was there to say? He fought for the MCP, he’d said it.

“…that is all…” he cracked out, turning to exit the arena.


	3. Chapter 3

Three cycles had passed without any repercussions for what he had done in the disc arena, except the other warriors had all been hesitating to fight each other. The news of the derezzed programmed had spread quickly, along with Sark's awkward closing statement.

As for the command program himself, he was returning to the Mesa via solar sailor. A twisting feeling of nervousness was splicing at the ends of his circuitry, flickers of light betraying his stone cold expression.

He wanted to feel victorious, and he had for a short period of time. However the worry that he would be punished for the derezzing had overcome whatever positivity there was to be found in the situation.

The solar sailor docked at the Mesa, and Sark could feel the MCP's attention turn to him. Before he could step off the control surface of the Sailor, the MCP was beginning to transport him. He was in mid step when he felt that same sick feeling wash over him. Sark's surroundings changed from the side of the Mesa and the deck of the sailor, to staring straight at the MCP, the defensive walls of the fortress spinning behind him.

The MCP slowed to a halt, doing a final full turn before reigning in on stillness. Sark lowered his gaze, standing still, arms at his sides.

"What's the matter, Sark?"

He raised his gaze upwards, sighing a bit before speaking.

"Nothing is wrong, Master Control. I had an inquiry-"

"State your question."

"Yes, Master Control. How many programs do you want me to eliminate? And why? I'm not sure I understand the logic behind these actions."

The MCP's stretched eyes narrowed at Sark in silent observation before making a sound that resembled Sark's own earlier sigh.

"I suppose you deserve to know." The MCP spoke. Sark nodded, listening attentively.

"I want control of this system, Sark. I want complete control. What I have now is nothing compared to true authority. And if you are going to argue that there is no more control to be had, then you're wrong. What's going to happen when you defeat all these programs, claiming you fight for me, is that word will spread of my power. You are the only extension of my power at the moment, Sark."

The command program mustered his processing to argue back. "Master Control, if the Users had wanted you to have control over every program in the system they would h-"

Sark felt suddenly the same feeling he got in transports, only instead of the location changing, he still saw the MCP's face glaring furiously at him. He hit the now immobile inner wall with a crash, his body bent up against it. He screamed as a wave of energy forced itself through his body, the pain like white hot irons shoved beneath his skin.

"I won't be told what to do!" The MCP exclaimed, watching as his underling writhed in agony against the wall. "All you are is a program with a few extra codes, you're no different than the rest of those sorry morons that turn this system in to a cesspool of inadequacy. The only thing that makes you different is that you work for me."

The MCP sent another surge through Sark, the program wailing in agony. The MCP let his thoughts wander as he continued to torment his subordinate, watching the body twist and bend, expression change between the bouts of pain, and blue lines of circuitry flash red. Although his 'original' programming was the scant chess program, the MCP thought of himself only as the crimson obelisk he was now. The innermost program at the base of the pillar was merely a husk of what he once was.

He would not, could not, let any program see what he had originally been. A feeble, weak, simple minded program designed of all things to amuse the Users. He wasn't an idiot; the MCP was already talking with Dillinger, much to that User's amusement and surprise. He had requested that Dillinger create him a program that could aid him in carrying out commands, specifically so that he could begin his ascend to complete control. But if he was to have this complete reign over the Encom system, he couldn't have other programs believing that the Users were greater than he.

It would be a process of elimination. He knew somewhat that a few programs weren't keen on their Users for reasons like overuse or abandonment for a newer model, he could use that to his advantage. But these programs were few and far apart – what he needed now was to start gaining control by word of mouth and intimidation. Being stuck on the Mesa only gave him a few options, but Sark would be his arm, his blade, so to speak.

His eyes widened as he suddenly remembered Sark. He had gotten lost in his own thoughts, and had forgotten that the command program was still forced against the wall, shrieking in pain. Sark's armor was beginning to disintegrate, his circuitry blinking red as he entered death throes.

The MCP terminated the agonizing flood of energy, gently levitating Sark's limp form off the catasta and setting him down. Sark lay there, eyes wide open as his circuits blinked red, mouth moving slowly as he shuddered.

No no no no no no, the MCP's thoughts scrambled, what could he do? He was killing his only ally, his only subordinate. He sent a weak surge of energy at Sark, not to harm but to heal. Sark stopped mumbling, so that was good. He did it again, and Sark made a small sound of relief, closing his eyes. The MCP sent another wave, this one longer than the last two. Sark didn't move for a moment, then his mouth opened slightly, brows furrowing in confusion, and something else.

He opened his eyes, and the MCP stopped quickly, expression changing from curiosity to stone-cold severity as it had been before.

"Stand up, Sark." The MCP ordered, and the commander complied. Sark blinked, noticing something, and looked at his arms, then body. He was repaired, for the most part, but his armor still was in bad condition, parts of it disintegrated, revealing his own 'skin' so to speak, underneath. But the most obvious was the red circuitry, having not returned to blue once he was no longer in danger of derezzing.

"I will not question your authority again, Master Control – I'm sorry.." Sark said, lowering his gaze again.

The MCP was silent, trying to think of what to say. Sark had taken Dillinger almost six months to write, and if he ended up derezzing him from the system, Dillinger would be furious. At the moment, he couldn't afford to have a User angry at him, not right now at least. He stumbled over some more words through his head for a moment before speaking.

"Continue Sark, continue battling in the games. The more arrogant programs will catch wind and want to challenge you. When you crush them in to a few pieces of data no more useful than a bit, and claim you fight for me, then they'll begin to get the idea."

The MCP looked away for a moment before adding awkwardly, "I know you can do it."

Sark looked up, trying to smile despite his circumstances, but something inside of him drove him. It wasn't just the threat of torture or death at the hands of his master, but it was also doing what he was programmed to do. He was programmed to serve the MCP, and he was doing what he was made to do, what he needed to do to feel truly worthy to be in the system.


	4. Chapter 4

When Sark reentered the games, the silence around the arena was as thick as lead. Programs watched him, staring at him in curiosity, fright, and on occasion, resentment. They whispered on his red coloration, wondering how he was still walking with that display of critical damage. His expression said nothing, but there was an air of pride he held about him as he strolled towards the disc arena – he was proud to wear his colors, a symbol of his loyalty and servitude to the MCP.

His first opponent was a security program, from that particular division at ENCOM. The program had traveled a long way via solar sailor just to challenge Sark. The command program had no idea word could spread so quickly of what he had done. It scared and excited him at the same time.

The Program was almost like Sark in terms of body, thin and lithe, but with a young face and a twitchy way about him. When Sark stood in his square, facing the opposite end of the arena where his foe stood, he could not help but feel intimidating with his crimson circuitry. Programs were covering every inch of the upper observatory, whispering to each other as the anticipation floated over all of them like a heavy cloud.

The starting bell rang and Sark whipped his disk around from his back. He didn't want to give this program a chance to even try anything fancy. The security program was faster though, and Sark ducked down quickly to avoid the bright blue disk that had been quick to try and lobotomize him. So the security program was playing to kill, that was fine, defeat was equivalent to death in Sark's mind. If his opponents didn't kill him, the MCP would for his failure.

He sent a command to his disk along with an energy surge. It glow bright orange and he feigned a hard throw to his right, but instead the disk flew around his back, catching the security Program on the left. The Program barely had time to duck and catch his own returning disk at the same time, before Sark's disk returned like a boomerang to the Program's back, derezzing him quickly.

The other programs that watched gasped in amazement and fear, the rumors had been confirmed to their own eyes.

Sark caught his disk, and slipped it back on to his back. He turned up to the crowd, and spoke loudly, confidently;

"I fight for the MCP!" he shouted, and the programs listened, "The MCP fights for complete dominion over the system, and is heralding a new age of enlightenment – where all Programs can be free from the fanatical belief that 'Users' control them." He took a breath and licked his bottom lip, speaking a bit quieter. "Any Program who wishes to challenge the MCP…is welcome to be my opponent."

He turned on his heel, walking out of the arena. In the back of his mind he heard the MCP's voice, congratulating him. Or maybe it was just a little glitch, either way, he felt proud of himself. He had to be clever if he wanted to win against the best programs, and controlling his disk without just a throw or a toss was the first trick he had taught himself.

Three programs had travelled from different areas on the Grid just to fight him the following day. None of them were anything special, two interpreting programs and a data cleaner.

The first interpreter was difficult, the Program was more than skilled at combat, probably a home-grid hero or the like. The battle lasted for at least a half-cycle, and both were exhausted and stumbling towards the end of it. The interpreter got close to Sark in the final few moments of the battle, wrestling him to the ground and attempting to decapitate him with the blue disk. Sark had tossed his own disk to the side before impact, and as he watched in silence as the interpreter prepared to derezz him, the program's stressed face became just a glow of energy that dissipated in to the ground.

His disk returned to his hand dutifully, and he stood, the spectators now silent and grave. The next two were easier; fighting seemed to be more rudimentary with every battle. The other interpreter put up less of a fight than the first, and the data cleaner hadn't even been able to throw his disk before Sarks' flew down and split him diagonally, body vaporizing in to crackling electricity.

The battles were over for that cycle, and Sark repeated his mantra to the crowd. He noticed several programs walking away after he was done, and at first he thought nothing of it.

As Sark approached his solar sailor however, and saw the group of programs, he readied himself for an attack. They looked at each other nervously and backed away, preparing to run. Sark halted, setting his disk back in its place between his shoulders.

"…What do you want?" he asked, looking at them suspiciously.

The five programs all mumbled clumsily before one stepped forward, a young program with an unimpressive face and voice, but obviously the bravest out of all of them.

"The MCP – you fight for him, right? Can we?"

Sark opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. He was lost in what to say. Surely he should have thought of something to say to prospective followers, the MCP had been expecting this to happen after all. But words were lost to him, and after a moment of awkward silence, he spoke.

"Get on." He said, pointing to his solar sailor. He'd introduce them to the MCP, and then, he could deal with them however he wanted. Play it by ear, or some User phrase he had heard before.

Sorry if it seems rushed, my computer's charger is down for the count at the moment, I'm waiting for a paycheck to buy a new one.


	5. Chapter 5

At first, it had surprised Sark how many programs had wanted to join the ranks of the MCP, but he realized that their desires were easily understood and quite rudimentary. It wasn't all about power, at least not in the majority of their reasoning. Control, organization and order was a program's natural want – it was in their innermost core to seek out these things.

But what continued to stand out as a surprise to Sark were the programs who resisted, albeit even if it was a small number. Most were too weak to fight back or simply accepting of the MCP's spreading influence cycle by cycle. This pleased the MCP, and what pleased the MCP by extension made Sark more than brim with pride.

It had been nearly 10 cycles since Sark had begun to spread the MCP's influence – now he had lieutenants and underlings to take care of the busy work, guards to patrol the inner parts of the grid cities, and recognizers to defend the outer walls. His cycles were now filled with reading reports and shouting at lieutenants, which he was perfectly comfortable doing – it was in his programming after all.

Sark looked up from a daily report given to him by a lieutenant as a guard approached, clad in distinctive bulky armor, staff at his side. Sark looked up, setting the data pad down, craning his neck to stretch it before giving the guard his full attention.

"Yes?"

"The MCP requests your presence, sir." The guard said swiftly before inclining his head and turning to leave.

Sark sighed, standing up from his seat and making his way through the maze of hallways and circuit-lit tunnels to the Solar Sailer dock, the simulation already running in expectation for his arrival. Once aboard, he lazily typed in commands for the MCP's Mesa, and leaned back against a guard rail, crossing his arms as the transport left its dock.

Hurriedly, the Sailer gained speed, streaking across the open lands of the grid, reaching the uninhabitable outlands, then the sea of simulation. The MCP's mesa was becoming visible and rapidly approaching, the spinning cylinder guard orbiting the great obelisk hidden within become more and more sharply defined to the naked eye. Once the Solar Sailer docked, and Sark approached, the MCP already had its attention fixed upon him.

"You called, Master Control?"

The MCP looked down at him with an unreadable expression before speaking, "Sark I believe it's time to expand my arsenal."

Sark blinked, twisting his lips to the side in thought before replying. "Are the recognizers not sufficient? I have received no reports of problems other than minor resistances that have been quelled within the cycle, Master Control."

"Not that." The MCP continued, "Every time I wish to speak with you it must be via messenger, this is wasting your time and more importantly, mine. I have been creating schematics for a carrier that is capable of receiving a direct link from the Mesa, to put an end to these time-consuming Solar Sailer rides."

Sark nodded, setting his hands on his hips, "And this carrier will also serve as a mobile base?"

"Precisely. It will be linked to your own personal command codes, and should you see fit, will be derezzed and recycled upon your command."

Sark was slightly overwhelmed for a moment before he spoke up once more, "It's for me..?"

"Who else would I give it to?"

"Ah…you are correct, Master Control. Tha-"

The MCP quickly cut off his gratitude.

"I will also be upgrading that garish armor – you were built by a User yes but I won't have your appearance reflecting it."

"Master Control I'm afraid I don't understa-"

"Silence!"

Sark pursed his lips shut quickly, looking down and standing still as he felt a direct link from the MCP working its way in to his armor, rerouting code and lines of data. His armor glowed, certain pieces derezzing and others being built on block by block until it had changed shape. He felt additional weight on his head, and once the glow faded and his armor code become sedentary, Sark reached back to feel around his neck and behind his head. His gloved hands pinched a fabric-like material, moving up to the sides of his head to grasp long backwards horn-like ornaments.

"There. Much better."

He heard the MCP speak but was currently too involved with observing his new full body attire before he looked up, a small smile on his face. Before Sark could speak however, the MCP barked his orders for Sark to depart - adding quickly afterwards that the Carrier would be constructed within the next half-cycle.

Sark turned, and once the MCP could no longer see his expression, a grin split through his face and he strolled back towards the Solar Sailer beaming with pride.


	6. Chapter 6

"Here it is Sark, are you impressed?"

Sark stared in awe, nodding numbly in response to the MCP's question as he gazed at the Carrier. He stood on the MCP's Mesa, the Carrier resting idly on the ground as he rushed up and down, pressing his hand to various surfaces and trying to memorize every nook and detail.

"Sark, are you listening?"

"Yes, Master Control!" came a shout from within the Carrier. The MCP frowned and raised his voice so Sark could hear him from within.

"It took me a long time to develop the communications system within the main bridge. You can directly contact, and receive data from me via the podium. Only you can access the podium, if another program tries to activate the handles, it will offer no response and alert you."

Sark emerged from the ship, not wanting to get lost in exploring while the MCP was speaking to him. He looked over to the MCP, who had temporarily removed his cylindrical guard to view Sark's reaction and subsequent actions regarding the introduction of the Carrier. The Command program went to one knee, bowing his horned head to the MCP before rising again.

"Thank you, Master Control." He said, containing his true elation for fear of the MCP's temper at such a display of emotion.

The MCP narrowed his eyes, trying to figure out Sark's odd expression that seemed a mixture of awkward happiness and something else that he couldn't discern properly. What was hiding behind that mixed façade? The MCP couldn't figure it out, but it didn't matter, it shouldn't matter.

"How are things progressing, Sark?" the MCP asked, in that quaint, polite, faux-compassionate tone that he used with Dillinger. Both of them responded to it in a frighteningly similar manner of complete obliviousness – and instead of suspicion they reacted with eager recitals of their most recent accomplishments. The MCP enjoyed it, both of them wrapped around his metaphorical finger – having them both pander for his affection.

Dillinger enjoyed it because of his current superiority as a User, which the MCP was eager to change. Sark enjoyed because, the MCP supposed, it was in his programming. He had been designed to serve the MCP, every postliminary reaction included.

"Very well, Master Control." Sark began, going over his report list in his mind. "The games have been very successful; the elimination of unwanted and unnecessary programs is progressing without delay."

Sark paused, pleasant expression changing to one of disappointment, "However there has been a small resistance building within a central sector of the Grid. We've gotten reports of five guards derezzed and seven injured. What action do you suggest, Master Control?"

The MCP was silent for a moment, eyes narrowing as he thought in silence, the only sounds filling the area being the whirring dull roar of his rapid rotations. He looked down at Sark, who awaited his orders patiently, arms crossed casually.

"Present yourself to that sector, Carrier included. I want you to show them the power you posses, and give them a display of force if necessary. Get your hands dirty, give them something to scream about while they run and hide. Understood?"

A cracked grin slowly spread across Sark's cheek as he looked up at the MCP, darkly rimmed eyes glinting with something that had been buried for too long. "With pleasure."


	7. Chapter 7

Radiant was not a word that often came to a program's mind in the Grid. True enough the splendor of the light cycles and the vast sector cities were illuminating and vibrant but the light did not fill the darkness around it. Light in the grid simply penetrated through the black, but did not take up the empty space that surrounded.

Sark felt radiant, he felt akin to what a User must have felt like. It was like the cold and black of the Grid was no more and this feeling, this warmth, had filled every inch of it. The Grid was a cold place, there was no warmth to be found but with another Program and even then, they had functions and duties and time for frivolous activities was seldom to none.

Programs stared up in awe, the great Carrier hovering above the city and filling the void with majesty and a presence they had never felt before. The might and awe of such a massive vessel was the closest thing they would ever feel to gazing upon a User, Sark thought.

He knew the insurgency members were lurking about – beneath him was the sprawling network of passageways and buildings and several hundred alleys and unused spaces available for hiding. Sark was fully aware of this and more than eager to accommodate their violent streak. Five, five of his guards – derezzed. Unacceptable. Sark felt no emotional attachment to these programs now clad in red such as himself; however they served the MCP with the same loyalty as he. Their losses meant time spent recruiting new programs, or spending both time and data recreating them.

The Carrier lowered slightly, and Sark nodded at the operator to his left, who activated the digital teleportation, waves of light spreading over Sark and taking him apart layer by layer as they shot down to the center of the City square. He reformed, the rungs of energy lifting up and forming his body until he stood, whole and true before the generic data pushers and information programs that stared at him like a pillar of light in the darkness.

Two guards were also sent down, flanking him on both sides as he stood – sending his gaze over the Programs who whispered to each other in either fear or admiration.

"No need to be alarmed." Sark spoke, "We are investigating this matter for your security, this insurgency shall be put down both promptly and effic-"

Sark jumped, a guard behind him derezzing in a flash and snap of light without so much as time to scream. The programs who had watched his arrival fled, like cockroaches exposed to light as rebellion members made themselves known. It was easy for Sark to differentiate as he quickly backpedaled, the ones that didn't run were the ones he had to kill.

He mapped the area out with a sweeping glance, the city square was surrounded by buildings on all sides but the size was large enough that he could have landed the Carrier in it if he had so chosen. Four roads led away from the clearing in each cardinal direction. Sark had half a mind to snort at how uninventive the design of the city was, but it was a city of programs whose daily lives were made up of endless and unimaginative data streams. Didn't leave much room for imagination.

The bottom line Sark gathered from this - was that there was no place to hide, and there were at least five rebels, discs drawn, heading straight towards him.

"Watch my back!" he snarled to the guard, who turned and immediately set himself upon a rebel who had been a ways behind Sark. As he finished his sentence he looked up, hearing the crackle of energy that was still familiar to him even though many cycles had passed.

He drew his disc quickly and did an upward sweep, knocking the blue disc away and hurling his own. In a violent streak of red and orange, the attacker was gone – weapon disintegrating with him. This had left Sark open for an easy attack, and he found himself scrambling to catch his disk and avoid getting struck by the two that were diving for his chest.

Catch and throw, dodge and dive – his body remembered and he didn't have to think, he only did. Blue discs missed him by inches and centimeters, but he twisted to avoid the flying death with fearless precision. As Sark threw his disk, feigning a left throw, his disc instead turned to decapitate the rebel closing in on the right. He heard the telltale sound of a derezzing behind him but with no scream to go with it.

He knew two choices laid before him, turn and see who had been derezzed and leave himself open for an attack or trust that his guard had been adequate to take out the single insurgent he had been battling.

"Com-" Sark caught his disk as he heard his guard call out to him, but as soon as he prepared to throw it again a searing burn tore through his back and he met the floor. The first thoughts that ran through his head weren't about his injury, but rather that he should have been derezzed from such a laceration, yet he was still alive.

The world around him became nothing but sound and light, his eyes waxing over as he felt his body try to drag itself towards his disk that had been flung out of his hand. More pain, it was everywhere now. He felt the sharp burn and heat of another strike, this one down his lower back and leading to his thigh.

He grinned despite it all, the MCP's armor somehow holding him together through the would-be fatal wounds. Sark's vision became a mixture of reds and blues – he could hear shouting but it became so incoherent that he couldn't differentiate words. Blobs of blue came close to him, then blobs of red came from behind, glistening lights and gems of every color swarmed in his field of vision as he felt arms pulling him back.

A sickness filled Sark, and he didn't realize what was happening as the Grid seemed to warp and flow before his eyes. As quickly as it had set on however, it vanished – and Sark realized he was back in the Carrier. The hums and beeps of the Grid-map that filled up an entire wall were unmistakable; they comforted Sark as two guards dragged him to the podium.

The guards looked over at each other as they pulled the limp Commander across the floor to the MCP's contact station. They knew, priority wise, the MCP had stated firmly that any urgent news was to be given to him directly – and no one but Sark could operate the podium. The guards knew there was nothing they could do for their Commander, the concept of 'recovery' was a rare and tricky term on the Grid, and only applied to those with the smallest of injuries. Anything worse resulted in a slow, painful derezzing.

They lifted him up, trying to get their commander to stand as they wrapped his fingers around the handles of the contact podium, stepping away quickly to avoid being caught in the blades of light that quickly surrounded Sark, enclosing him in an opaque wall of blue light.


	8. Chapter 8

"Sark."

His arms hurt, that was the first thing that came to mind. Why did they hurt – they were up, he was grabbing something. Sark opened his eyes, mumbling incoherently as he lurched forwards.

"Sark!"

The bark made him jolt, and he looked up – the MCP staring back down at him – face made from polyhedrons and filled with blue light. Sark tried to stand, to pull himself up weakly and brace his legs beneath him to push. He was able to successfully hold himself upright by leaning on the left stand, eyes closed in pain. His priority coding kicked in, he had to tell the MCP - he had to let him know.

"Insss..insurgency.." he spoke, speech glitching and voice garbling nearly beyond the point of coherency. "Guards – guards – dispa..dis-"

"Be quiet Sark, before you incur further damage upon yourself."

Sark made a sound akin to a watery hiss, fingers clamped around the handles and unable to move – he hadn't realized until now that he couldn't let go of the handles unless the MCP so desired. He wanted to lay down, to rest – to derez without struggle or complication. But the MCP would not allow it, and who was he to argue – even at death's metaphorical door?

As he leaned over, legs bent from weakness, Sark felt his back grow warm and opened his eyes numbly to see diodes of light and energy stream up from the handles in to his hands, wrist then arms. The light traveled through him and then to his wounds where it gathered, repairing him slowly, bit by bit.

"The armor I gave you performed better than I could have imagined…" the MCP mused as it increased the flow of energy and raw data into Sark to rebuild and compensate for what had been lost. On Sark's back, skin was reconstituted, red lines of light running through it - the exact patterns that covered his armor glowing on his gray skin.

"You can let go, Sark. I'm in control."

Sark felt the same weightlessness wash over him that he had encountered before during the MCP's torture, so many cycles ago. But this was different, as if the hand of a User was holding him – keeping him safe in an aura of security. The MCP was in control, and he didn't have to be scared.

The MCP likewise was enjoying the session in his own way, watching Sark float there in his invisible grasp – back arched and eyes closed. He sent the finishing waves of code into his most favored, finishing the healing process, wounds closing and armor rewiring. Sark was too exhausted to speak, and the MCP knew that now was the opportune time to take advantage of that fact.

He sent in a small surge of excess power, the coding different than that of the healing pulses he had spared Sark just before. The lines across Sark's armor glowed darker for a moment, then returned to normal red a second later. Sark furrowed his brows, perhaps an unconscious reaction to what was happening, but the MCP knew that he was lucid enough to still be aware of his surroundings.

The Master Control increased the power surges, Sark twitching his arms in confusion as to how to react. He did not know this feeling, this new wave of power that was eagerly flooding in to him. He felt a dull heat under his skin, under his flesh – that penetrated to the very core of his being. It was like a fire, burning inside of him that wouldn't go away.

As he watched Sark wrap his arms around himself in dull confusion, the MCP hesitated for a moment between energy surges. Was this a cruel thing to do? To pleasure and use this program that had was already bound to serve him by coding alone? After all, he knew Sark would follow his word for one reason or another. Be it loyalty or fear of torture, the horned commander was never faltering in his zealous efforts to meet the MCP's every directive and desire. No, this was not cruel, the MCP thought to himself. He would use this as incentive and rewards for his commander, but also as a genuine reward. Sark deserved this, even if he didn't realize what it was – he deserved a reward for his services that wasn't new armor or a ship. He deserved what was rarely found in the Grid, comfort from another.

In the ever present night of the Grid it was so seldom that programs had time for each other, let alone the rare pleasure that could come with it. It was a cold and dark place, the MCP thought as he began a steady stream of warmth in to Sark. His commander's eyes opened slightly in shock and surprise as he floated, then closed as he let his head fall back and arms drop away from his chest.

"Just relax, Sark." He thrummed, trying to comfort him as he pushed further – increasing the potency of his power transmissions. Sark's armor changed slowly from red to a dark maroon, then lighting at a quicksilver pace to become white. The light emitted from his armor filled the entire column, refracting off of the tiny angles of the MCP's visage light drops of water falling through sunlight.

Sark made a pitiful sound, a mix between a whine and a whimper as he arched his back further, mouth open slightly as his respirations increased. The MCP raised an eyebrow nonchalantly and sent a wave of power through Sark's form, causing the commander to shake and cry out. This was more effective than he had expected.

The MCP watched with interest, now curious how far this would go. He increased the flow even more, Sark breathing heavily as he crisscrossed his arms over his chest, grabbing his shoulders as he bent forwards in the lighted space. The MCP didn't stop, flooding Sark with energy, the cylinder lighting as Sark's armor glowed in response to the excess amounts. His commander began to make sounds of desperation, body shaking as he writhed in the air – unable to stop or increase the source of the heat and power that was filling him.

Enough was enough, the MCP was decided – he didn't want the other programs on the outside getting curious as to what was taking so long. Sark was shaking, and a small part of the MCP began to worry if he was hurting him. It wasn't that the MCP cared, but this was not the time for torture. He didn't want there to be any kind of doubt in Sark's mind that this was a good thing.

Sark felt the power welling up inside of him; he was on the brink of ecstasy that he had never known to exist. He could feel the MCP's power in every inch of his body, of his core, and surrounding him in the air. He had never felt filled, or whole as he did now – but part of him knew that it couldn't last forever, he didn't want it to. As pleasurable as this was, too much would hurt him. Somehow Sark was aware of this dimly as his thoughts began to go blank. White hot light radiated from every line of circuitry, and likewise all Sark could see beneath his eyelids was a white glow. He felt like he was on fire, but without the hostility or harm.

The MCP watched Sark closely, before finally sending a final swell of power in to his body. Sark tried to hold back, to hold on for just a moment longer, but it was too much. Glowing eyes made of lines and light watched him as he cried out, body straining and shaking as the cylinder was washed in radiant light that was one of a kind. The MCP found himself temporarily unable to make out the portions of Sark's body as the climax came – and as the light dimmed he heard a soft moan come from the now limp commander that was still floating in his invisible grasp.

The MCP gently lowered him down to the ground, watching as Sark's armor pulsed between dull gray and a weak red. The commander was silent, eyes closed and face transfixed in an expression of hollow inanition. It took perhaps five minutes for him to even open his eyes, and the MCP finally grew impatient enough for him to send a surge of energy into him to awaken his subordinate. Sark's eyes grew wide and his face was filled with an expression that read 'not so soon' but he was relieved when it was just enough to aid him in standing. He stood, looking at his body then gripping the handles of the podium once again, as if it gave him some kind of small comfort.

"That kind of power can be your reward Sark, if you perform up to standard."

Sark blinked, expression going from confusion, to concern, to initiative. "Yes, Master Control."

"Deal with the insurgents if any remain. And do be more careful next time; Dillinger would be furious if he had to write another command program."

The MCP saw a flicker of disappointment flash across Sark's face for a split second, but it was gone before he could react.

"Acknowledged, Master Control." Sark paused for a moment, blinking up to look the MCP straight on.

"They – did they hear…?"

The MCP mulled the inquiry through his processors before remembering how loud Sark had cried out and moaned. He also distinctly remembered soundproofing the cylinder when he designed the Carrier so that the bridge controllers wouldn't hear Sark scream if he needed to be disciplined.

"No, they did not."

Relief flooded Sark's face as he leaned forwards to sigh in ease, the MCP gave him further instruction for his takeover, which Sark memorized easily before allowing him to release the handles. The cylinder turned to blades of light and vanished easily.

Sark turned to his bridge crew, who stared at him in awe – having expected nothing but a few bits of data to be leftover. Their commander crossed his arms, glaring death at them.

"What are you staring at, null units? Get back to work!"


	9. Chapter 9

Sark felt time begin to quicken, or at least what he perceived as time began to quicken. Things became more routine, more familiar with every passing cycle. The more often he repeated a certain action or order, the faster it was executed. He began to predict or expect a certain outcome every time, and became disappointed or angry when it did not occur. This was natural though, to be given something repeatedly then having it suddenly vanish was always disappointing.

The MCP would give him his orders, and he would comply. If he failed, there would be disciplining. If he succeeded, there would be praise. If he succeeded exceptionally, there would be a reward.

These rewards left Sark leaning against the console of his podium – surrounded by blue and white and slowly regaining energy. The MCP never rewarded him as well as he had that first time, but Sark was content with what he received none the less. It wasn't so much the feeling, it was the attention. He – of all the programs that served the MCP – was getting this special attention.

This attention and superiority did not stop the Commander from getting his hands dirty. He was more than eager to quell any additional uprisings, as well as terrify his opponents in the Game arena. Unfortunately though it began to lessen in entertainment. The best warriors had been defeated, most by him, some by his lieutenants. All that's left for him to battle are accountants and actuaries, business programs with no ferocity – no drive. It doesn't take away from the fun of derezzing a program – by sending his disk flying through their bodies or by causing them to crash in to their own light wall on the race track. What it does take away is the sense of satisfaction at the end.

But still, Sark was never one to complain – especially now in such vibrant times. The Grid was organized, it was under control, it was safe. The MCP would take care of any and all threats, and Sark was to be his right hand. This made the Commander beam with prime and brim to the edges with excellence.

Everything was as it should be.


	10. Chapter 10

Sark dies in a scream of light.

In the distance, the MCP's eyes widen and he is in stunned silence – if only for a few seconds. Once Tron begins his assault, he knows that he cannot fight this battle alone. Energy ripples in to Sark's dissolving body, gorging him with strength. He rises - a titan at the MCP's command.

Sark feels that he is dead; he knows that once the MCP's power leaves him – he will be permanently derezzed.

Sark wonders if he will see the face of his User – even though he has been forbidden to speak of Him. Will his User be angry? Will he be proud? Do they even exist at all?

His mind dissolves these questions as he finishes his march to Tron, the program attacking him with bravery that Sark would have envied if he had the time to think about it.

But so soon – something is wrong. Terribly wrong. The MCP deforms and changes colors, the pillar of light rising upwards and dissolving.

The MCP fights with the very last of his efforts to stay, and his last thoughts are filled with rage and the clawing need to survive. But once the obelisk has dissolved, all that he can do is fade in to the shadows and wither away. The MCP cannot accept his own defeat, but it takes him none the less.

Sark watches, hollow eyes gazing uselessly as the last fragments of the MCP are quickly dissolved. He feels the power draining from him, and with that power - himself as well. He notes that there is no User waiting for him, no warm light to fill him and make him whole. Sark accepts this, collapsing and dissolving – and meets his end in silence.


End file.
